


Espresso

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Sex Work, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7015132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best part of Lindir’s day is making Elrond coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Espresso

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Sorry, the rating’s just for a stray fantasy or two. I don’t know how this happened. Thranduil’s part is inspired by [The Blind Leading the Blind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6110263) by AuteurOnirique.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Imladris isn’t much, but Lindir’s been around long enough to feel attached to the place. He’s paid well enough to bother cleaning when he’s bored, and his coworkers are understanding enough to let him fuss over every little thing, rearrange the counters half a dozen times, and wipe down all the tables the second a customer stands up. He likes his work place clean, likes helping the manager with the books, likes the seasonal chance to invent new drinks, and likes a few of the regular customers.

Most of all, he likes one particular customer. Serving up the familiar single shot café americano always brightens his day. Most of the drinks, they just call out the name for, and though Lindir delighted in obtaining and memorizing his favourite customer’s name, he still always delivers it straight to the table. He always makes it himself, and his coworkers are understanding enough with fantasy crushes to let him elbow into their corner and shove them onto the register for an order or two. Every time he puts the drink down on the table, he’s rewarded with a charming smile.

At first, he occasionally earns little, “Thanks you”s, and after one month and Lindir blurting out his name on the end, it turns into, “Thank you, Lindir.” Two months in, and Lindir dares to stay long enough for the first sip, and then he’s given short compliments like, “Delicious,” or “Perfect, as usual.” At least, Lindir thinks of the compliments to the drink as compliments to him. By now, Elrond must know Lindir always makes it himself.

Elrond Peredhel is a professor at the local university. Lindir learns this from overhearing conversations with one of the few people who ever joins Elrond’s table, another professor with a far bolder personality. Thranduil orders a different drink every time and usually asks for whip and chocolate, whilst maintaining the body of an Adonis with the longest, silkiest blond hair Lindir’s ever seen. Lindir still prefers Elrond's more mature looks. They seem about the same age, but Thranduil’s is a more typical beauty, whilst Elrond is darkly handsome. Lindir usually prefers older men.

Unfortunately, Elrond is polite, never flirtatious, even though Lindir sucks in his courage to do _more_ nearly every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings and Friday evenings—the times Elrond comes in, and Lindir’s shamelessly adapted his schedule for. Lindir tries to bring up new conversations—what book Elrond’s currently reading at his little table, how his classes are going, if he has anything planned for the weekend—that question took the most courage of all, but Feren assured him it could be said casually enough, and Feren’s gone out with several customers before. Elrond always answers simply and honestly, and usually has nothing more planned than a weekend with the kids or the in-laws. The first time Lindir heard that, he was crushed, until next Monday Thranduil needled Elrond rather loudly for being a ‘lonely old widower.’ Elrond had sighed that he had a perfectly full life and wasn’t particularly bothered with dating, to which Thranduil dramatically sighed they’d find him some nice man-meat someday.

Lindir, too skinny and plain and with absolutely no muscle tone, has never considered himself ‘man-meat.’ But hearing ‘man’ on the possibility list still made his heart leap into his chest, and he’s nicer to Thranduil for it—if Thranduil’s doing the finding, he needn’t look much farther for a willing participant. 

Then, nine months in to Elrond’s rigid coffee routine and Lindir’s still madly burning crush, Thranduil approaches the register and asks, “What are your plans tonight, Lander?”

Lindir’s so taken off-guard that he actually tries to think of how much a ‘Lander’ drink is, before realizing that of course someone as clearly rich and good-looking and whatever-else as Thranduil wouldn’t remember his name. For some reason, he bothers to correct, “Lindir,” and then doesn’t answer the rest. It almost sounds like a proposition, but Lindir’s never been propositioned in his life, and if it’s just casual chatter—which doesn’t seem Thranduil’s style, at least not with the lowly baristas—he still doesn’t have a good answer. Most days, he just goes home and reads and tries not to fantasize too much about licking iced coffee off Elrond’s chest.

Which, of course, is a terrible thought to have at work, and now he’s turning a little pink while he stares numbly at Thranduil. 

Thranduil must be used to making people speechless, because he rolls on without a hitch, “You see, my friend over there,” and he pauses to look pointedly at Elrond, who’s sitting at his usual table despite it being far later than his usual times and decidedly looking anywhere but Thranduil, “has a new position opening up in his life. We seem to be running out of suitable candidates for it, and from what he tells me of the conversations you two have had, I think you might be the perfect fit.”

Lindir can hardly contain his shock. He’s grateful there’s no one in line behind Thranduil, because his brain might’ve just short-circuited. It sounds very much like Thranduil is asking if Lindir would like to go on a date with Elrond, tonight, which Lindir _very much does_.

A small part of him wants to shout no and run into the back, because if he messes this up, he’ll lose the best piece of eye candy he’s ever had. He’s fairly certain, given what he’s ascertained of Elrond in his nine months of ogling and fact hoarding, that he’d be quite fine marrying Elrond without another word, but he’s almost equally as certain that one ‘date’ with Lindir’s neurotic nothingness will have Elrond going to another coffee shop. 

Somehow, he still blurts, “I’d love to,” to which Thranduil smirks, like he wouldn’t have expected anything else. 

“Good. He seems to think your shift’s over in another hour; I assure you I’ll be gone by then.” And he actually winks, which makes Lindir almost break out in a nervous sweat, because that _definitely_ makes this mean what he thinks it means. Then Thranduil nods towards the board behind Lindir and orders, “Anyway, I’ll have a blended mango smoothie, and he’ll have an espresso.” The cash is out before Lindir can think or say a word. He counts out the change on auto-pilot, and Thranduil, for the first time that Lindir can remember, actually tips him. Elrond always tips him. 

Lindir has to make the smoothie twice, because his hands are shaking. Tauriel takes over on til without a word. Lindir can see Elrond and Thranduil over his workstation and, for once, doesn’t dare look over. It occurs to him belatedly that Thranduil might be playing a joke on him, but he knows enough of Elrond’s personality by now to know that he wouldn’t go along with that. Lindir wastes a good five minutes fretting over how to make Elrond’s drink, until he finally works up the courage to come around from behind the counter. Elrond and Thranduil are deep in conversation, but they stop when he hovers there, self-consciously trying not to wring his hands like a maniac. He looks at Elrond with burning cheeks and asks, “Um, sorry, did you... did you actually want an espresso, or an americano...?”

Elrond gives Thranduil a little look, to which Thranduil shrugs, and then Elrond turns back to Lindir and politely says, “An americano. Thank you for checking.”

Lindir mumbles, “No problem,” and then stands there way too long afterwards.

Elrond tells him gently, “I’m looking forward to our talk.”

And Lindir breaks out in a smile that feels like it’s infected his brain. Embarrassed beyond all repair, he finally retreats back to the safety of his counter. When both drinks are finished, Tauriel asks him, “Do you want me to take those?” but Lindir shakes his head stubbornly and sucks in a breath. 

He delivers them both, Thranduil not even looking at him and Elrond saying, “Thank you, Lindir,” with more warmth in his voice than usual. Or maybe Lindir’s hallucinating. He almost bows as he leaves.

He makes drinks and stays off the til for the rest of his shift, because he can no longer be trusted to function coherently. It’s a slow evening (and it feels excruciatingly so) and there’s just the two of them until Meludir shows up, which Lindir’s looking forward to—Meludir’s too young to be too serious about love, so he likely won’t find this as funny as Tauriel does, who clearly keeps trying not to laugh. She still gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder at the end of his shift and tells him, “It’ll be fine. At least blondie wasn’t propositioning you for himself.” That does make Lindir feel marginally better, because that _would_ be nightmare. Her tone also gives away that Lindir’s not the only one Thranduil doesn’t tip.

There’s a peg in the back for him to hang up his apron on, and that gives him the horrible realization that he won’t have time to change into anything nice before his dream date with his dream man. He tries to calm himself down by reminding himself that he doesn’t have anything nicer than this black button up and dark wash jeans, anyway. His hair’s still up in a messy bun with two little braids down the front, but he doesn’t dare try to re-style it, because with how long it is, Elrond might leave before he finished. It still takes way too long for him to wander back out. Thranduil’s gone, and Elrond’s still sitting at his usual table. There’s one other customer by the window—a crotchety old woman who always wants Lindir to put vodka in the drinks even though he’s told her (and Thranduil) a million times that he _can’t_ —so at least there’re few witnesses to his shame. Meludir’s already taken his place, Tauriel busy showing him things, even though he started a week ago and Lindir had everything memorized in two days.

Lindir feels incredibly awkward walking over to Elrond’s table, and then he just sort of stands there again, until Elrond gestures to the seat across from him, and then Lindir clumsily sits down. He’s normally not this much of a wreck. But he wants this to work out _really badly_. The table is barely half an arm’s length long and piled with a thick, century-old looking book, the plastic coffee cup Thranduil never bothered to put away, and Elrond’s nearly empty ceramic cup. After precisely one second of Lindir not knowing what to do, he asks, “Can I get you more coffee?”

Elrond dons the same thin but radiant smile that made Lindir first fall unreasonably in love with him. He answers, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’ve already exceeded my caffeine limit for the day.” 

“I can make you something decaf?” Lindir suggests. He wants to say he can make Elrond _anything_ but knows that doesn’t make any sense. 

Elrond kindly says, “Lindir... I was hoping to discuss something other than coffee.”

Lindir says a little, “Oh,” and bursts in a blush and searing joy.

“Yes,” Elrond continues, and he lifts his wrists onto the table, fingers interlocking. He’s dressed in a white button up and brown vest, matching jacket over the back of his chair; he always looks so _professional_ , and that formality is bizarrely part of why Lindir’s so attracted to him. “As I, perhaps foolishly, let Thranduil tell you—which I do apologize for, by the way, but he was most insistent—I have a position available. I know it may overstep, and please do tell me if I am far out of line, but given all our conversations, I was hoping you might fit nicely.”

A ‘position’ is a weird way to put it, but they’re weird people. Lindir deals with manageable OCD and Elrond’s always here at the exact same time, to order the exact same thing, and might be the one other person that lives as routinely as Lindir. Lindir’s all too happy to insist, barely able to stifle his grin, “No, no—I’m very interested.”

Elrond’s expression seems to lift with his. “Wonderful. I am sure Thranduil didn’t fully explain my proposal, and I do apologize that he insisted this initial meeting take place at your work—I assure you the next will be more suitable.” Lindir frankly couldn’t care less where they go, so long as they’re together, but doesn’t want to appear as insanely eager as he is and so remains quiet while Elrond goes on. “There are many details to go over, of course, but I think we can at least cover the basics tonight.”

Granted, Lindir hasn’t been on a date in a long time, but he did expect the ground rules to come _after_ a few dates. But of course, Elrond’s very by-the-book, and Lindir’s happy to abide by that, so he waits for them, and Elrond starts first with, “Unfortunately, I am on a budget, so while I assure you that you will be fairly compensated for your efforts, I am afraid that I may not be able to compete with your wages at this shop—I am told you have been here for some time. I will, however, be requiring you mostly in the evening, so you should still be able to keep this job.”

Lindir’s jaw nearly hits the floor. 

He _stares_ at Elrond, sure he’s heard wrong, except that it wasn’t just one sentence but several, and surely this is something Thranduil would do, not Elrond, but then, Elrond did arrange it, and Elrond is very businesslike—why shouldn’t he like his relationships along the same line? Only, is that done? Lindir’s only ever heard of it being done for _sex_ , and he blurts, feeling absolutely ridiculous, “I... I’m afraid I don’t—I don’t have much experience in this area...”

“Fortunately, it does not require formal training,” Elrond tells him quite easily, which makes perfect sense to Lindir except he really meant _any_ training at all.

“And...” Lindir starts, before pausing for several awkward seconds and blushing furiously while he tries to find the right words to phrase it, “I wouldn’t... I don’t necessarily _expect_ to be paid...”

“Nonsense,” Elrond answers just as simply. “I am sure you are quite talented, and you deserve to be compensated so.”

Lindir’s sure that _some_ people are talented enough to warrant it, or at least in situations that warrant it, but Lindir has absolutely no idea what he’s doing in the bedroom and would quite happily figure it out with Elrond for free. Of course, if Elrond’s used to professionals, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.

On the other hand, don’t some people like bumbling virgins? He isn’t one, but he’s close enough. He’s sure he heard that somewhere, although it might’ve just been Feren teasing Meludir. 

Completely numb, he asks, “When... when do I start?” Because he can’t _not_ take this bizarre ‘side job,’ at least for the half a session it’ll take for Elrond to realize he made a huge mistake. It’ll ruin Lindir’s coffee-crush, but he’s already never going to be able to look at Elrond the same way again.

“We could try a few exercises now, if you like,” Elrond suggests. “To see if you are interested in the work.”

“Here?” Lindir squeaks.

“We could return to my office, if you wish, and then I could at least pay you for your time. I don’t expect you to work under the table.”

Lindir has, rather shamefully, had several fantasies about sucking Elrond off under this very table. But those were wild _fantasies_ that he never expected to come even remotely true. 

Elrond seems to pause, perhaps waiting for Lindir to decide whether or not Lindir will be attempting to please his new boss here or at Elrond’s office. Which Lindir would very much like to be in. And be fucked in. Even if this isn’t at all how he thought it would work out. He wants to just say _there_ , put away the used coffee cups, and go. 

But he’s too much of a mess and can’t seem to get the words out. He can’t stop staring at Elrond, who’s so unbearably gorgeous, looks so strong, is so articulate, has such a deep, kind voice, and is such a good listener, and always seems to genuinely _care_ about Lindir, even though their relationship is such a small thing right now, and he’d desperately wanted _more_. And sex with Elrond would be _fantastic_ , but Lindir still wants _more_.

So he puts it all in jeopardy by mumbling, “Could we, um... could we maybe... I mean, we don’t have to every time—I would very much like to take your offer! But... could we maybe just go on... maybe one date, first?”

He’s bright red and going to slink off his chair and through the floorboards. 

And Elrond stares at him in utter shock, as though the mere suggestion of such a thing would never have occurred to Elrond in the first place. 

Then he repeats blankly, “Date?”

“I... I just...” Lindir mutters, feeling incredibly small, “Please, don’t misunderstand me, I’d be quite happy to simply have sex with you—although I don’t understand why you’d want to pay me; I really am dreadfully inexperienced—but it’s just that I’ve had a crush on you for _so long_ , and ugh, I didn’t mean to say that, but I would really like to... to t-talk, like we usually do, and—” There is no and. He’s rambling and just sort of... stops himself.

Elrond lifts both eyebrows and say very carefully, “Pay you... for sex.” Lindir can’t say anything else; he’s busy wanting to disappear. Then Elrond lifts a hand and abruptly drops his head into it. 

Lindir knows he’s said something wrong but is no longer sure quite what. 

To his surprise, Elrond doesn’t blame him, but asks with a pinch of irritation, “What did Thranduil tell you?”

“That you...” Lindir mumbles, “that you had a... a position in your life...”

“My _job_ ,” Elrond stresses, before dropping his hand. When he looks back at Lindir, all the agitation seems to melt away from his face, and he becomes again incredibly kind, understanding, comforting. He reaches one hand across the table to place over Lindir’s, burning him up at the contact. “Lindir, I am so sorry. I should have known he was up to something. I am looking for a new assistant at the university. I had thought... goodness, and you thought... and then I brought up payment... Lindir, I am terribly sorry.”

Lindir feels like he’s going to cry, and not from humiliation, but from the horrible realization that not only will he not be getting to date Elrond, he won’t even be getting sex. He looks quietly down at Elrond’s hand, half wanting to turn his over and grip Elrond’s tightly and not let go ever, even though he’s fairly certain Elrond’s stronger than him and could still get away. He mutters, “Sorry.”

“Do not be,” Elrond insists. “This is entirely my fault. I promise, I had no intention of embarrassing you so—”

“I told you I’m dreadfully inexperienced in bed,” Lindir blurts, which he wishes with every bone in his body he could take back. He knows he sounds hysterical. Elrond is quiet for a moment.

Then he smiles gently, and his thumb strokes the back of Lindir’s hand. “And that you have had a crush on me for sometime.” Lindir groans and leans slightly forward: a compromise to collapsing. “I hope it was not because of my tips.”

Lindir, miraculously, manages a little laugh at the joke. Under any other circumstances, he might joke back that Elrond is hardly his biggest tipper. As it is, he just sort of sits there and continues alternatively feeling sick with shame and unadulterated pleasure over Elrond stroking his hand. 

“You are certainly one to jump to conclusions. I wish you did not look so downtrodden, Lindir. I assure you, I am quite flattered that one so young and beautiful as you would be interested in a boring old professor like me.”

Lindir’s head jerks up again. Before he can stop himself, he’s gushing, “But you’re not that old! I looked you up—j-just the once, I swear, I never—but you’re not boring; I always find your insights fascinating, and you’ve read all the best novels, and I’ve loved every one you’ve recommended to me, and still you always have such interesting comments afterwards—a-and the papers you’ve published! I’ve read every one, and you have _such_ a way with words, and you’re terribly handsome, the most—” He cuts off again, fumbling over words, while Elrond’s grin stretches wider. 

But his hand withdraws from Lindir’s. He looks aside, out the darkening windows, and then back at Lindir with a hefty sigh. 

“Normally, I would fight this more. I assure you, I am not much, and I think you are worth far more than you give yourself credit for. ...But after all I have put you through, I owe you at least respect for your decision. If you will still have me, I believe I would enjoy a date with you.”

Elrond’s barely finished talking when Lindir rushes all at once, “Of course I will still have you.”

“I hope you don’t say that to all the customers.”

“No, I barely talk to other customers,” Lindir says, before clamping his jaw instantly shut and wishing he could just stop being so ridiculously honest around Elrond. But Elrond simply laughs, and the sight makes Lindir melt. 

There’s another moment of quiet, but this time it’s disgustingly pleasant. Lindir feels both like a complete tool and the happiest he’s ever been.

Then he asks, “Can I still be your assistant?”

And Elrond laughs all the richer and rises from his chair. Lindir’s distraught for half a second until Elrond extends his arm and answers, “If you like; I still think you would be a perfect fit. But I think the office would be a poor first date. Perhaps I could buy you dinner?”

Lindir says, “I’d love that,” but first hurriedly puts the empty cups away. He can’t bring himself to meet Tauriel’s eyes as he dumps them in the tray, but he can _feel_ that Tauriel’s happy for him. Meludir’s busy making drinks for customers that aren’t half so amazing as Lindir’s. 

Then he’s back in Elrond’s arm and leaving through the door.

Two weeks later, Lindir discovers that Elrond makes a fine americano every morning, but, as he murmurs into Lindir’s ear, draped around him in the kitchen, “Imladris has a better view. ...Even if you are quite expensive!”


End file.
